


Know Another Langauge

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bad Decisions, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, language barriers, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank makes it clear that Gus isn't to speak Swedish in front of those who don't understand the language. Rated teen for hockey player language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Another Langauge

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during Gus’ rookie year, because I remember reading one article (which I’ll probably never be able to locate again in my life) that mentioned Hank telling Gus not to speak Swedish in front of those who didn’t understand the language. That’s the inspiration for this fic, and a public health announcement for it—as someone who recently knelt through almost an entire Latin Mass in a church without kneelers because her uncle urged her to go—is not to kneel on tiles for any length of time ever. It’s murder on the knees.

“Never make fun of someone who speaks broken English. It means they know another language.”—H. Jackson Brown Jr. 

Know Another Language

After practice, the ride home from the Joe with Henrik Zetterberg was silent as a tomb and the dead air between them in the suddenly too cramped and stale—from recycled heat in the climate control system and bitten back words on tips of tongues that longed to speak—car was so tense that a chainsaw rather than a Swiss army knife would be needed to slice through it. Unsurprisingly, as a result, Gustav Nyquist was relieved to exit the vehicle when Hank pulled it into the driveway with an uncharacteristically abrupt jerk on the wheel and enter Hank’s house even if Hank was cloning to his elbow like a police escort preventing a felon from fleeing prison. 

Gus’ tongue twitched to point out acerbically that he wasn’t about to run away, but the roof of his mouth felt dry as sandpaper, so the words were swallowed like a bitter pill. Darting a sidelong glance up at Hank’s face, which was a taut mask of either fury or at minimum extreme irritation, Gus decided that his newfound muteness was probably a convenient adaptation to reduce the odds of Hank strangling him within the next couple of seconds. 

“Go up to your room.” Hank jabbed a finger at the staircase behind them, his command ringing as an echo in the hallway. “Now.” 

“I want a snack.” In an obliging mood despite the fact that the rest of him was feeling as obstinate as a stick in a swamp, Gus’ stomach rumbled on cue. 

“I want you to do what you’re told.” Hank’s hand made contact with Gus’ hindquarters in a tap that was on the spectrum between a smack and a pat. “Move it.” 

Yelping as though he were a drenched cat mewling to be let back into an owner’s home in a protest at this mild physical discipline because, as far as he was concerned, there was a perfectly good reason corporal punishment was illegal in Sweden (it hurt like bee stings), Gus hurried up the first few steps in an attempt to place his backside out of reach of any further swats. Unfortunately, before he climbed the third stair, he heard Hank’s heavy footfalls treading behind him. 

The journey upstairs lasted what felt like three times longer than a typical trip, and when it ended, Hank once more snatched up Gus’ elbow and steered him into his bedroom. 

“I can find the way myself.” Gus yanked himself free of Hank’s clutches even if they were already in the guest room Gus had made his own since arriving in Detroit from Grand Rapids this season. 

“Throw a pillow on the floor.” Gus could hear Hank’s jaw tightening like a vise as it tilted toward the mountains of goose feather pillows wrapped in burgundy silk on Gus’ queen-size bed. 

Sensing that he was about to be ordered to kneel and feeling about as cooperative as a two-year-old dragged to the timeout chair in the corner of shame, Gus hurled a pillow at the claret-colored wall and watched it rebound onto the maple floor with a sickening satisfaction in his knotted intestines. 

Staring at Gus with eyes that could have burned the Devil to a crisp, Hank snapped, “If you want to have a tantrum and take your temper out on inanimate objects, you can kneel on the floor without a pillow.” 

“Are you a shuffle short of a playing card?” spluttered Gus, as astonished as if Hank had declared an overwhelming desire to become a ballerina. Kneeling on the floor without the benefit of a pillow was the type of torture evil nuns in a horror movie might devise to make pupils’ kneecaps bleed. “Surely, that’s never been done—or even thought of—before in Red Wings’ history.” 

“I assure you it’s been done before since there’s nothing new in Red Wings’ history.” Hank latched onto Gus’ shoulders and pressed down firmly. “Kneel, Gus.” 

Feeling his knees start to cave under the irresistible force that was Hank’s will, Gus tried to push back by muttering, “Do you want to lay off the bone-crushing grip, huh?” 

“This isn’t my bone-crushing grip.” If anything, Hank’s palms were pressing harder now. “This is my don’t-do-anything-foolish grip. We might progress to bone-crushing in a moment, though, if you still refuse to kneel.” 

Knees crumbling as if they sensed that resistance was ultimately futile as an Edmonton Oiler season, Gus collapsed to the floor. At first, he was going to be grateful that at least the spot beside his bed was carpeted with a small red rug, but when the fibers scratched into his naked kneecaps, he could only wince and mentally curse himself for wearing gym shorts back from practice. Keeping his spine rigid and his hands glued to his sides as if he were in a strait-jacket, he strove to communicate that he might be kneeling but he was by no means truly submitting to Hank’s authority. 

Sighing as if he could read the revolt in Gus’ mind, Hank said in a softer tone that he had employed since they came into the house, “I’m going down to the kitchen to have a snack and calm down so I can deal with you better. You can use the time to think about what you did wrong at practice today and why you’re kneeling right now. Okay?” 

“Fine.” Gus emitted a snort that he hoped adequately conveyed his abundant scorn. “The sooner you go, the better, as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Don’t move a muscle while I’m gone, or I’ll make you kneel on the tiles in your bathroom for our conversation when I return,” Hank warned, his tone stony as granite once again in response to Gus’ persistent insolence, as he placed his cellphone—set to record a video—on the night table to film any movement Gus made. “Oh, and in case you’re wondering, kneeling on tiles has happened in Red Wings’ history, too, so you wouldn’t be the first rebellious rookie to suffer such a fate.” 

Gus wanted to ask what the fuck Hank meant by that last remark, but Hank’s footsteps had already faded from the bedroom, so there was nothing left for Gus to do except stare at the wall and reflect on how he had landed up to his ears in this shit. Wishing he could massage his throbbing temples but aware that was as forbidden as Romeo smooching Juliet, Gus thought back to the morning team meeting. 

Coach Babcock had marched into the conference as usual with a stride that suggested he was a general prepared to lead his troops into bloody battle, and his shirt had been so rumpled that Gus could only assume he had slept in it every night for the past month. 

“Nice shirt,” Gus had muttered—in Swedish, obviously, because he wasn’t suicidal, just sarcastic—-to Joakim Andersson, who had been sprawled in the chair next to Gus but sat bolt upright when the door slammed closed in Babcock’s wake. “Did you get it off the discount rack at the Salvation Army?”

Joakim had stuffed a fist into his mouth to stifle a laugh into a choked cough, but, unluckily for Gus, Babcock had appeared about as far removed from amused as the east was from the west. 

Glowering at Gus as if he could not fathom how such a rude creature had wound up on Detroit’s respectable roster, Babcock had demanded, “What the hell did you just say, Nyquist?” 

“Nothing, Coach.” Gus had gulped and prayed that he wouldn’t be demoted to the minors immediately. Trying to explain why he was returned to Grand Rapids to Blash if this was the reason would be about as fun as skin cancer, Gus had noted inwardly, feeling his soul sink. 

“Next time you want to say nothing, keep your mouth shut,” Babcock had barked. When Gus had opened his mouth to offer an abashed assent, Babcock had added in a voice drier than the Sahara, “You can start practicing that skill now, Nyquist.” 

Wishing that he could evaporate into the air and knowing better than to speak, Gus had nodded and ducked his head, studying the wood whirls of the table while Babcock had begun his video review session. He had told himself that Tats would say something even stupider to draw the lightning of Babcock’s rapid wrath or Smitty would forget he was supposed to play defense at some vital point in practice to distract from Gus putting his foot in his mouth, but Tats must have gotten a brain transplant last night and Smitty was shockingly lucid all practice…

Hank’s footsteps creaking the floorboards as he returned to Gus’ room alerted Gus to the fact that he was no longer alone with his thoughts. 

After checking the video on his phone to confirm that Gus hadn’t squirmed like an earthworm in mud while he was in the kitchen consuming his snack, Hank plopped onto Gus’ bed with a rustle of blankets. 

“You were smart to stay still, Gus.” Grimly approving, Hank steepled his fingers as he scrutinized Gus. “Tell me why I’m having you kneel like this.” 

“I don’t get a pillow because I had a tantrum and threw it across the room.” Gus’ cheeks were blazing bonfires. 

“Very true.” Hank nodded. “That was a bad decision. What other bad decision did you make to have to kneel in the first place?” 

“I disrespected Babs.” Gus took an intense interest in the rug under his raw knees. 

“Look at me.” With gentle but incessant fingers, Hank tilted Gus’ chin up so that their eyes locked. “How did you disrespect Babs?” 

Gnawing his lip guiltily as he confessed the full nature of his crime, Gus replied in scarcely more than a whisper, “I said in Swedish that he was wearing a nice shirt, but I meant the total opposite.” 

“Exactly.” Hank’s gaze was searing into Gus’ brain. “There was zero need for you to critique his fashion choice.” 

“He didn’t understand what I said.” As desperate to evade Hank’s eyes as he was to provide an excuse—no matter how feeble—for his bad behavior, Gus scraped at his cuticles. 

“So what?” Hank’s slight shake of Gus’ shoulders was enough to encourage the young man to look up again. “When you speak Swedish in front of those that don’t, they assume that you’re making negative comments about them that you don’t want them to understand, because why else would you be speaking a foreign language in front of them?” 

“To communicate with another native speaker, because it’s not a foreign language to me.” Gus couldn’t contain an eye roll. “Not everything is about them.” 

“Watch your attitude.” Hank’s eyebrows arched in reprimand. “You know Babs was right to make the assumption that he did.” 

Gus could hardly argue with Hank’s pronouncement, so he remained quiet as Hank went on, “Up until now, I haven’t confronted you about speaking Swedish in front of those who don’t understand the language because you haven’t actually used it to say anything bad about anyone else before today, but from now on that stops. It creates a division in the locker room, and I won’t tolerate that, Gus.” 

“I’m sorry, Hank,” burst out Gus, tears stinging his eyelids although he wasn’t certain why. “I shouldn’t have been rude about Babs’ shirt, I shouldn’t have thrown a tantrum when you wanted me to kneel, and I’ll try to remember not to speak Swedish in front of anybody who isn’t Swedish.” 

“It’s all right.” Hank stroked Gus’ hair away from his forehead in a rhythm Gus believed was soothing for both of them. “I know you’ll do better in the future.” 

“I will,” promised Gus earnestly, nuzzling his cheek against Hank’s knee. “I swear.” 

As if he could see how much Gus craved affection, Hank rubbed Gus’ shaking back, explaining, “I care about you and your future in this league, kid. That’s why I make you kneel. Kneeling gives you focus and discipline, so you can do the right things for the right reasons.” 

“The way you, Kronner, and Pav always do.” Gus didn’t even try to hide his admiration as he glanced up at the captain who had taken him into his home. 

“That’s what we try to always do,” corrected Hank, tapping Gus on the nose. “Sometimes we screw up like everybody else, but the important thing is to always try to do the right thing for the right reason.” 

Hoping that his repentance might garner him a partial reprieve, Gus pouted up at Hank. “May I please have a pillow, Hank? If I can just have a pillow, I won’t sass you again today.” 

“No pillow is your punishment for acting like a brat.” Gus figured that Hank wasn’t about to relent, but then offered by way of compromise, “You can sit as long as you stay on the floor.” 

“Thank you.” Well-aware that his bottom was better cushioned than his knees, Gus rocked backward on his heels into a sitting position. “That’s a huge improvement.” 

“Kneeling on the floor hurts like hell.” Hank tucked a stray strand of hair behind the shell of Gus’ ear. “I wish I didn’t have o teach you such a hard lesson.” 

“Me too.” Gus nibbled on his lower lip as he whispered so softly it was a marvel Hank could decipher his words, “Would you have made me kneel on the bathroom tiles?” 

“If I had to.” Hank squeezed Gus’ shoulders in a hug. “I’d hate it, but I’d do it if I had to, because I’m going to make sure you’re disciplined properly, scamp.” 

“I don’t think I’d survive that cruel and unusual punishment.” Gus was nudging at his cuticles once again. 

“Nonsense.” Hank knocked his knuckles against Gus’ temples in reproach. “I’d never discipline you in a way I hadn’t lived through myself.” 

“I can’t imagine you kneeling for anyone.” Gus shook his head in an attempt to dislodge this bizarre notion as if it were an irksome fly buzzing in his ear. Picturing Hank kneeling for anyone was like imagining a world where the laws of physics were flipped and gravity pulled things skyward. 

“I used to kneel for Steve Yzerman like you kneel for me.” Hank gave a quarter moon grin. “When I got stubborn like you did today, he made me kneel without a pillow, and when I got really stubborn like I hope you’re never dumb enough to get, he made me kneel on tiles.” 

“Sounds like he’s to blame for all your bad captain habits,” grumbled Gus, shuddering at the prospect of being forced to kneel on tile for a prolonged period of time when a carpet was brutal enough on the knees. “Remind me to send him an Edible Arrangement as a token of my gratitude.”


End file.
